Prince of Honor (House of Terriot Book 1)

by Nancy Gideon

  “Don’t you dare disgrace him with your cowardice. This is what you wanted. Sit the fuck down.”

  She dropped immediately, not out of obedience but rather from shock. Cale was right. She’d brought dishonor to her noble prince by letting him defend her, by pretending she had a right to sit amongst her no-longer peers. No matter how many battles he fought, he couldn’t sway the rightful opinion of his clan as to who and what she was. Traitor. Bitch. Slut.

  She’d begun to lower her head, unable to watch Turow’s defeat at her expense, when a sudden shift in the crowd’s mood brought her back to full attention. Her eyes widened, her pulse leapt, her breath caught then released in a shiver as the Turow Terriot she’d seen in the hall roared back to life.

  Stephen was equally jolted from certain victory as his mild, placid brother rained down on him like an eruption of fiery stone and ash. A flurry of incredibly fast and impossible to evade strikes pounded head and body, driving him back, beating him down to his knees where all he could do was cover and cower as best he could.

  But no relenting mercy came.

  Sylvia’s moment of blood-lusty retribution and wild admiration for her mate stumbled to a terrified end. Turow was going to kill him, against Cale’s edict, against his own code of honor. And even if Cale allowed it, Turow could never live with that.

  Again, she started to rise, but was held in place by Cale’s hand on her shoulder and more surprisingly, by Kendra’s hand gripping her own.

  This couldn’t happen! She couldn’t let it end this way!

  No! Turow, stop! Row, please don’t!

  Arms raised overhead, biceps bulging with strain and power, about to stab the end of his staff through the opponent who no longer had a face or name within the seething fury blanking his brain, Turow froze. Sylvia’s cry jerked him back from the fatal deed as if she’d seized him by the back of the neck for a will-rattling shake. He stumbled a step back, panting hard, shuddering with tension and rage as cooler logic regained control of red-seared thoughts.

  Staring down at his fallen foe, he again saw his brother Stephen, not some anonymous threat to be crushed and destroyed. In a low, penetrating voice, he asked, “Do you yield?”

  “I yield!”

  “Admit what you did!”

  “What she said was true,” Stephen blurted out through bruised and bloodied lips. An anxious gaze lifted to their king as he stood in judgment.

  Cale looked between his brothers, expression impartial as he asked Turow, “Are you satisfied?”

  Turow’s attention shifted from Cale to Sylvia who now stood still and pale at his side. At her brief nod, he sank down to one knee, head bowing, “Yes, my king.”

  As Stephen stumbled from the court in disgrace, the silent crowd remained seated, unsure of how to react. To cheer for the victor would be applauding the female they despised.

  Sylvia felt no such restraint. She hurried from the gallery, managing to pause for a strengthening breath before crossing the bloodied floorboards to where her prince still knelt, head bowed, hands clutching the staff laid down before him. He didn’t move, nor did their family, as she stopped in front of him. Her palms cupped his battered face, tipping it up so he could see her faint smile.

  Something devastating moved within his gaze, liquefying that wide, silvery-blue stare just before his eyes closed as she bent to kiss his brow. She feared to name what she'd seen there as she whispered softly against heated skin, “Thank you, my prince.”

  The gallery emptied quietly, their king and queen the last to go. Finally, Sylvia straightened and asked, “Can you stand?”

  Instead of answering, he said simply, humbly, “Thank you.”

  “For what? Nearly getting you killed?”

  “For saving me. I heard you call out to me. You pulled me back from . . . from something there’d be no coming back from.”

  Seeing no reason to mention the words hadn’t been spoken aloud, she reached down to cup his elbows, letting him grasp her shoulders as they struggled to get him on his feet. Draping his arm about her, he leaned without apology.

  “You look really nice.”

  She glanced up, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “You look like hell. Let’s get you home.”

  Home.

  Nothing could have shaken Turow from his own misery like that single word.

  After finding their coats in the emptied hall above, they moved out into the cold to make their way slowly along the snow-swept walk.

  Turow couldn’t miss the tremors shaking through the grip she had on his arm, and finally considered what his bold actions might have cost her. What if he’d lost? If Stephen had killed him? Why hadn’t he thought of that instead of his own white-hot fury? Those consequences sank deep and dire as Sylvia pulled him up the stairs toward their tiny, insignificant room. Shutting the door. Turning on him in her own unexpected attack.

  Her hard, right-to-the-tonsils kiss nearly knocked him senseless, as did the rough words that followed.

  “Take me! Now! Take me hard!”

  His surprise lasted only as long as it took for her palms to grab his ass and tug him tight against her, pressing herself into the immediate roar of his erection as their bond called to his inner beast. All weakness fell away. If he thought that might make her hesitate, he was wrong.

  Her hands pushed between them, not to lever distance but to quickly shove his pants down, freeing that tumescent length for her encouraging grip.

  His body shuddered, but reason forced him to groan, “Be sure. There’s no going back once we start this.”

  Instead of answering, she jerked her slacks down and quickly skinned off her jacket, leaving on just her bra and knee-high trouser socks.

  The scent of her arousal swirled about Row, a wild cyclone of lust, uprooting his caution, stripping him down to raw need, and them both to bare skin. An aphrodisiac effectively ripping away all traces of physical pain.

  Reaching the bed would take two more seconds than he could wait. Scooping his hands around the sweet curve of her upper thighs, Turow hoisted her up. As sleek legs clamped about his waist, he settled her onto him, the abruptness making her gasp. Then moan as her hungry kiss found his mouth once more.

  He’d made love to her before. This wasn’t that. This was hurried, hungry, animal need, encouraged by the taste of blood and smell of sweat. Harsh pleasure spiked, playing off that fierce undercurrent of attraction constantly bubbling beneath their cautious tension. They pursued their desire the way they would a delicious meal, with grasping hands, greedy licks and urgent bites. Her nails scored his skin. Her fierce pants scorched his neck. Her fingers twisted in damp, close-cut hair and trembled against his cheek as he pounded her atop him, driving her to a thunderous and nearly endless release.

  Row held her tight, savoring the hard flutter of her heartbeats against his chest as he continued to pulse within the hot clench of her body. He would have crushed her there forever if his knees hadn’t begun to shake.

  With her wrapped contentedly around him, he carried her to the small bed, withdrawing reluctantly to seat her on its edge while he went into the bathroom to crank on the shower.

  “It takes a while to heat up,” he explained. “I don’t.” He answered the drowsy question in her heavy-lidded eyes. Eyes that widened when he draped her knees over his shoulders as he went to his own between them to lap and feast upon damp flesh until her heels beat out a dramatic concluding tattoo against his back. He calmed the wild tremors with the caress of his palms along sleek, trembling thighs, lifting up to share the erotic taste of their pleasure with his kiss. When he eased back, she regarded him through dazed, dreamy eyes, gifting him with a moment worth all the heartache before and most likely to come.

  It was all Sylvia could do not to go down the drain as Turow washed her languid body under the fortifying spray. Suddenly afraid to meet his stare, she concentrated on the hard perfection of his chest and arms, traveling those damp contours with soapy palms, gently grazing over the bru
ises darkly blossoming.

  Finally, stroking, caressing the still hard and unsatisfied length of him, she coaxed, “Let’s go to bed. Unless you’d rather read your magazines.”

  She glanced up and was dazzled by his grin. As it slowly faded, that strange naked softness returned to his stare making her hurriedly grab for a towel as an excuse to escape both him and whatever it might mean.

  Once they were together on the narrow bed, away from the averted stare of Grandma Mildred, Row kissed her like he’d never stop. Softly, deeply, tracing her lips with the tip of his tongue then with teasing little nibbles that had her pulling him atop her, over the restless thrusts of her hips. Parting her knees, opening the way for him to finally take his own release, he remained unhurried, palms and mouth caressing her until she shook with expectation, until her sighing moan welcomed his return. And that was slow and easy, too, partly because his earlier vigor now screamed through his side, but mostly because he couldn’t bear for things to end between them. As they must when her skilled fingertips stroked low and sure to trigger an explosive response.

  Too blissfully drained to feel his body’s complaints, Row held himself inside a moment longer, just to ride her deepening breaths as they soothed over his cheek. He couldn’t remember ever being so content. Until he lifted up slightly to meet her warm gaze.

  “Thank you, my prince.”

  My prince.

  My love, whispered through him in response.

  Sylvia lay replete listening to the muffled sound of his slumber. Though her body sighed in luxurious satisfaction, tears gathered along her lashes.

  Why would he do something like that? Something so reckless, so dangerous, so . . . wonderful?

  No one had ever championed her before. Even her mother’s actions had been from self-interest, not to protect her daughter. Sylvia had spent her entire life bracing against attacks, so used to fighting her own battles the thought of someone else taking her part mystified, confused and alarmed her.

  Why? What reason did a prince in the selfishly arrogant House of Terriot have for flaunting the power of his king at the risk of his own life? For sex? If that was behind it, they’d both been well rewarded. What other motive could Turow have? Was he trying to seduce her from her caution, draw her into lowering her guard? To what end? She was already his prisoner through dire circumstance and now their shared bond. He stood between her and Cale’s wrath. The only thing keeping her alive was Row’s bold, foolish gesture and his brother’s mercurial affection for him. Why did Turow push his luck there? Cale was a proud, fierce male, willing to make any sacrifice to earn and hold his clan’s respect. Yet he allowed a lesser prince to openly—audaciously!—defy him and walk away, not only unscathed, but with an unheard of concession.

  An apology.

  Who was this strange, quixotic prince who bound her to him for reasons she didn’t understand? She was no bargain, no tender, loving mate. If anything, she was blight upon his chances to rise within their House. Was he a fool? She’d never thought so. Didn’t he realize there was nothing to gain from weighting himself down with a female who only lay beside him because she had no other choice?

  What the hell was wrong with him? What did he want from her?

  Frustrated, curious, she eased from the relaxed curl of his arm to roll onto her side and study him as he slept.

  Turow Terriot rocked that same dark, brooding beauty that identified all his brothers. Nothing was lacking in his looks or in his harshly sculpted build. Warrior born, a blunt instrument to be wielded at his king’s pleasure, he defined the qualities of a steward of the crown. Brave, strong, and loyal. What he lacked was the characteristic self-indulgent pride in who and what he was. He took no pleasure in broadcasting his heritage. In fact, it seemed to embarrass him. Was his willingness to serve humbly, without reward a sign of weakness or one of a heroic nature she couldn’t quite believe real?

  Her gaze traced his noble profile, lowering to stroke over the tempting terrain of his chest, refusing to acknowledge the slight hurry of her heartbeats. She combated that softening with cynicism.

  Was his humility an act in hopes of some ingratiating reward?

  Or, suggested a quiet voice, was he really a prince among his self-aggrandizing brothers?

  The ease had disappeared from his breathing and a certain tension delineated his chiseled form, bringing those marvelous pecs and biceps back to her attention. He no longer slept. At her sudden inhale, he turned his head toward her, gaze steady and infuriatingly unreadable.

  “Did you need something, princess?”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t ask what her demand meant. “I did what any man would do to protect his mate. As I promised you I would.”

  Too simple. Too complex. Just like that unblinking, patient stare.

  Suddenly she was afraid to know what lay behind it, fearing the truth would shatter the delicate masquerade they’d settled into.

  Because if she learned what motivated Turow Terriot’s action, what stirred in his earlier gaze, she’d have to recognize and deal with him as a man as well as a mate. That left her at a terrifying loss. She knew how to manipulate greed, how to bend and mold desire to her best advantage. But she had absolutely no idea how to interpret what might move this quietly powerful prince to love someone like her.

  Because knowing would require responding to the unexpected turmoil twisting inside her.

  “Thank you,” she told him again, and rolled away before she betrayed her confusion. And her shaky, ridiculously weepy gratitude.

  “You’re welcome.” Just that.

  Her emotions shuddered in mysterious response.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Movement woke a million angry complaints from head to toe, but the coolness of the sheets beside him forced Row to ignore them.

  Blinking against the sear of mid-morning daylight, he scented her nearby before actually spotting her seated on his lone chair wearing one of his tee shirts, an empty pack of mini doughnuts discarded on the floor as she thumbed through one of his magazines. As she turned it sideways to appreciate the center spread, he chuckled.

  “Not exactly the type of reading material I’d expect to interest you.”

  “With you asleep, there was nothing else to distract me.” Her gesture encompassed his Spartan room. “Some of the letters were entertaining.”

  “There’s no comparison.”

  “To what?” she asked.

  “To you.”

  Pleased by that, she tossed the magazine aside to study him intently. “Can you move?”

  “I don’t think so,” he admitted, lifting the edge of the sheet. “You’ll have to come to me.”

  The long pause that followed pained more than his body’s aches. Finally, Sylvia stood and crossed the scant distance to stand at the side of the bed, debating for another moment until he patted his palm on the empty spot next to him.

  “Here. I won’t bite.”

  She rubbed at the line of bruises on her neck, muttering, “You did last night.”

  Since it didn’t sound like a complaint, he grinned. “I was overcome by the moment.”

  Delicate brows lifted. “Turow Terriot? The epitome of self-control?”

  “You could make a dead man hard.”

  “Thankfully, you aren’t one after last night.”

  “Are you talking about the fight or the sex?”

  “You pick.”

  With that, she joined him, not just lying down but curling close, head on his shoulder, knee riding his thigh, palm resting over his suddenly hurried heart, proving, along with the stirring of the sheet, that he was far from deceased.

  “I’d pick the sex any time.”

  She sniffed at that. “The choice of a typical, randy Terriot prince. Willing and ready to bang anything that moves.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Not anything. Just you.”

  His answer rattled her, making her laugh to overcome her surprise. �
�Next you’ll be telling me I’m the only one you’ve ever been with.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to believe that.”

  So why did his admission upset her? Of course he’d frolicked through the field of groupies willing to bed a prince in hopes of bagging a king. She’d been one of that number, after all. He was wealthy, attractive, a male. Of course females would be falling all over him.

  His battered knuckles brushed her cheek. “But you were the only one who mattered.”

  “Yeah, right. You expect me to believe that line?”

  He smiled because the tightness in her tone was anything but teasing. “You know it’s true.” He sobered and said very softly, “You knew it was true the first time you kissed me.”

  The kiss. That fateful moment when a kind act by a gorgeous girl had given him his first foothold with his brothers.

  “You’ve probably forgotten all about it, but it meant the

  world to an awkward kid.”

  “The look on their faces.” She laughed, a sound of tender amusement. “It was a very nice kiss. You never followed up on it. I’d hoped you would.”

  What a difference knowing that then would have made!

  They shared the heat and silence for a long comfortable moment until a pounding on his door made them both jump like guilty teenagers.

  “Yo, Row!

  “Is that Colin?” Sylvia hissed. “I thought he was in New Orleans.”

  “He was.” Turow sat up, gingerly reaching for his pants only to find them a room away. He hobbled to retrieve and tug them on while Sylvia pulled the covers up to her chin, continuing to scowl.

  Colin Terriot was indeed in the hall, face wind-burned from the transition from sultry New Orleans to frigid Nevada, expression closed down tight as he glanced around his half-dressed brother to assess the figure in Turow's bed with a mutter of, “I’ll be damned. It's true.” Then his attention turned to Row, his grin splitting wide. “Heard you knocked the shit outta Stevie last night. Wish I’d been there to see that.”

  “What are you doing here, Col?”

  “Cale called us all back for some kind of powwow. Sounded